


¿Cómo Se Dice?

by VisceralComa



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Inappropriate Humor, Inappropriate Use of Alchemy Equipment, Memes, Modern Character in Thedas, No plot line, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirates, inappropriate use of magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/pseuds/VisceralComa
Summary: Lola is forced to become aEnglishCommon/Trade Language teacher for Isabela. And unknowingly for Zevran Arainai as she's forced onto the Siren's Call.





	¿Cómo Se Dice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brushed up cleaned up version of the original one shot I wrote for the MCIT Challenge located [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745359/chapters/17658973), and expanded for it's own story.

Hot. Humid. Summer. Three things I hated. Three things that were when I woke up.

The air was so thick you could drink from it with a little pressure. Just squeeze your hands, and sploosh water in you palm.

But I didn't need to do that. Sweat pooled down my forehead, between my fingers, and from my pits and groin. The sheen of moisture on my forehead had me lifting my shirt up to wipe at it.

I groaned. Didn't want to move. Didn’t help that my back was straight along the ground which I could never get it to do thanks to the curvature of my spine and my rounded ass and larger frame. I was comfortable, or my back was, laying straight on the firm ground, enjoying the relief on my lower and upper back. But it was short lived with the thickness of the air. There was just too much moisture. I needed to either find some ice or cool off or sink into a hot bath of some sort. 

But doing that required moving and moving meant generating additional heat.

Laziness be my name.

I laid there. Suffering. An occasional breeze cooled some of the sweat off my brow with the faint trace of the ocean. It was distant but close enough I could smell it and almost feel the water splash across my face. 

Of course these observations were made while I was trying to ignore the fact that I was here. Where ever here was. I laid on a ground with no memory of how I got here. Plus it was summer, which made it that much more panic inducing. Back home, in New Jersey it was in the middle of fucking  **winter**. Yet I was here in some sweltering field with heavy cotton trousers and a fuzzy wool shirt and  chanclas. All this heavy clothing generated so much heat and sweat. 

I had to move. If I didn’t cool off, or start my breathing exercises so I didn’t panic, I was sure to lay there and dehydrate.

But I’m a lazy fucker.

What did get me up was the sound of buzzing and the prickling sensation of bugs. My gosh so many fucking bugs. I scrambled off the ground and slapped my skin to bat them off.

Standing made the heat worse, because of course it did. My cheeks burned; upper chest reddened.

I needed to cool of. I chucked my pajama shirt off. Leaving me only in my undershirt and sports bra on underneath.  I tied the discarded shirt around my hair to keep it out of my face and protect my head from the sun high in the sky.

I wasn’t stupid. I had spent far too many days being told to protect my head in the summer when I visited the family. 

Of course this exposed my pale skin to the buzzing flies and - **Oh god look at the size of those fucking mosquitoes!**

I ran. Not before grabbing the backpack at my feet, my bookbag and the two brightly colored items beside it. I shoved them into the bag post haste and booked it out of there because the mosquitoes were the size of hornets. Giant hornets. Like the ones in Japan.

Nope. Nope. **Fuck** that.

I spent my youth being devoured by mosquitoes. I still had the scars on my legs from when I scratched and scratched and when they bled I pick-pick-picked at the scabs until my mother doused them in alcohol. But those were tiny mosquitoes. Little ones. These fuckers that I swatted away before running, were HUGE. I did not want to know what getting bit by them would leave behind, or what diseases it might be carrying.

I ran toward the ocean because it got stronger, the scent and sound of water lapping and relaxing me.

I saw the shore, the long stretch of beach and only just remembered to kick off my chanclas and picking them up before running. Then I swore because that sand was hot.Blistering - searing.  I yelped and swore to the nine levels of hells and back until I touched the wet sand, the tide washing over my feet.  I sighed with the turf coming in. 

Thankfully, the buzzing did not follow.  So I plopped my ass right onto the wet sand, staring out at the ocean before me and then I heard it. It was faint over the swell and crash of the ocean. I don’t know why I hadn’t heard it before but I supposed I had concentrated on the buzzing and running. I looked behind me at the distance I had ran, the thumping of my heart and my shrieking had masked the sound.

Not far, but far enough to make my heart sink and my legs ache at the thought of walking that way, was a city or town built with a large dock and ships that I could see from the coast.

Took me far longer than I care to admit to work up the motivation to get up, longer still to actually do so. I put my chanclas back on, splashed myself with some of the seawater to cool myself, and then  headed that way.  Whether I was kidnapped and dropped somewhere, civilization was ten times better than wilderness.

I paused too many times, my knees crying and feet aching. It was hard getting a grip because there was no roads and my chanclas were not made for this kind of walking, not to mention they were pretty old flip flops too. Still I trudged on.

The town itself was kind of outdated. The buildings were mostly made of sandstone or red clay bricks. Others and run down ones were wooden with thatch roofs. The streets weren't paved and there was no road or tar streets or any pavement. Just dirt roads and in some nicer areas bricked roads. 

And the people! They were worse! Most of them wore simple clothes. Like threadbare, cottons, some leathers - like  _real_ leather. Not shiny plastic pleather or imitation leather. There were hats too, lots of different ones. Almost all the women wore dresses. 

One very worrying thing was the presence of staffs with blades on the end, or swords, and the occasional shield. I made sure to move far away from those individuals, but a few looked my way. 

The further I walked into this town, the more I noticed people looking at me. My bright green pajamas and cleavage showing undershirt wasn't very inconspicuous. They weren't just looking at me for that though.  They were noticing my -ahem- assets. Men stared long and quirked their brows, and women watched me closer.

I walked into the town square - or what looked like it. Stalls filled the center and lined the buildings. Merchants sold goods like fabrics, food, jewelry, knives. There were tradesmen selling their gear at the stalls by the buildings. The largest of the brick houses were here with some sort of broken statue of a woman with her hands outstretched. I’ve seen my fair share of catholic churches but that woman did not look like Mother Mary. 

Robed women milled about. Their robes were wrong. They were red, gold, white. Were they nuns? 

As I walked through, I picked up on what people were saying. The language they spoke was a cross between Italian, Spanish, and bits and pieces of English. But there was some other language I couldn't place. I'm fluent in English and I had a passing ear for Spanish thanks to my upbringing. I could speak some Spanish when pressed. Just not a whole lot of it. 

Either way this whole place was weird.

“Excuse me.” I approached one of the robed women who turned the stink eye on me. I figured, religious officials are usually forthcoming, especially if you show an interest in listening to them proselytize - of which I was because this did not resemble any place like home or the island where my parents grew up on.

“¿Que deseas?” The woman snapped roughly at me, and pulled a dagger from her sleeve.

I raised my hands and took a step back. “Woah.. sorry sorry I don’t-” I coughed and took a moment to think of the words. “¿Perdoname, donde esta el pastol?” I asked for the pastor, assuming they were of the various Christian denominations and intending on going to their superior for help.

“Pastol?” The woman turned to her companion who was paler than me, if I could believe it. They didn’t recognize the word and even stumbled over it.

“¿Cómo se dice...el padre?” I asked, taking too long to form the words before i asked and switching to a more Catholic word. My Spanish was rusty and mispronounced. I sounded like a gringa, as my mother used to tease me any time I tried to practice Spanish. Needless to say I never learned it properly thanks to that.

Both women stiffened and eyed me harsher. “¿¡Padre?!” The one I had addressed sneered at me and then spit at my feet. “Tevinter bruja!” And pulled their blades up,

Did she just say…? Distracted by the daggers again. “No no! ¡Perdóname. ¿Por favor ayudarme?” I pleaded and backed up. But both women continued to speak faster and faster, I couldn’t even translate if I wanted to.

I stumbled away, far from them until I found myself at the docks.

So much for religious folks being universally helpful. I was sure it had something to with my pronunciation or maybe even how I was dressed. They hadn’t even looked friendly to begin with, immediately looking at me suspiciously.

“Ugh this fucking sucks. I hate speaking Spanish.” I rolled the saliva in my mouth. Forming the words for Spanish always made my mouth feel heavier. The sounds felt wrong on my tongue. I was hardwired for English at my age.

Another ship docked, its wooden exterior had me frowning. Ships that size hadn’t been made of wood in more than a century. And if they were it was all for show. Why were all these ships made of wood? 

The ship’s sails were tied up by the crew and then a tall strutting woman with a large hat meandered off, followed by what looked like a shadow. But that wasn’t what drew my gaze to them. Emblazoned on the side of the ship were the words Siren’s Call.

What?

I snapped my head toward the woman and the man who clung to her, mouth agape as I took in the overabundance of jewels, her hat and the sway of her hips.

She must have felt my eyes on her because she looked my way and I gasped.

It was Isabela. From Dragon Age. 

We stared at each other across the docks.  Her brows quirked as I wouldn’t look away.

I’d been told I have a thousand yard stare when lost in thought and that when I squint it looked like I had malicious intent.

I may have had my glasses but I couldn’t see her companion but I had an idea. I squinted.

Isabela frowned and her lips moved, saying something I couldn’t distinguish and the shadow disappeared.  

Shadows are NOT supposed to disappear.  They aren’t supposed to move on their own and they certainly aren’t supposed to haul you into a mostly empty warehouse and pin you to a wall.

Light brown eyes gleamed down at me.  I didn’t even have to know what was pressing into my sides.  By the three black stripes running down the side of his face I knew who this was.  But my problem was that he looked so real! 

His silk like voice muttered quick and dark into my ear, the daggers pressed closer and closer. I couldn’t concentrate one bit as he said those things because this was Zevran and he was **threatening** me.  

I could have swooned. Right after I threw up because **holy fucknuggets** this was Thedas. This was Zevran, Antivan Crow and he was speaking Italian mixed with Spanish - no _-_ Rivaini and Antivan.  

Breath hitching and my mouth hung open. I may have gurgled as my abdomen heaved and body rolled as the panic settled in. Out came a spew of everything I last remember eating hours ago. Arroz con pollo guisado y berza. Rice and stewed chicken with cabbage.  Something my mother made when we had a bit extra to splurge on food. Both of them gave a disgusted yelp. I slid down to the floor to empty the rest of my stomach’s contents.

“Oh fuck nuggets I can’t handle this.” I rumbled as I pushed away from the pile of stomach refuse and stared at the two. They stared at me, though Isabela was a little kinder, Zevran was far more cautious but he did have that permanent smile affixed to his lips.

The both of them began speaking in rapid Rivaini.  It was the sort of Spanish that I could hear and nod along, picking up a few words but not understanding a lick of it contextually.  It was how my mother would speak Spanish to her sisters when she didn’t want me to understand or whenever she was just talking conversationally. Bless her Boriqua soul, she spoke fast. I never had any hope of working out what she was saying with my dumbed down, vaguely toddler like understanding of the language.

What I did understand, and this was something no one would be able to take from, was their body language. Zevran was stiff, wary and didn’t trust me one bit.  But Isabela, kept throwing me looks, curious and well… let me tell you where her eyes trailed to definitely would have left me feeling mighty self conscious had it been anyone from home looking but this was Isabela and she wasn’t judging. No I dare say the way she grinned and leered at my ample curves, she had much better thoughts.

“You- you speak trade well?” Zevran was the one to turn to me with a concealed sneer.

“Uhhh…” I squinted. “Trade?”

Zevran waved his hand in a way similar to my mother when she was trying to think of a word in English. “Cómo se dice...common.”

“Well… yes. You hear me speaking it right?” I spoke. Zevran rolled his eyes and stepped over my sick and knelt by me quick and like a dagger.

“You. You teach her.” His english-common was broken but I didn’t have to work out what he said.

“Sorry you what?”

“You will teach her.” The dagger present prevented me from saying Fuck no, I am not a teacher.

That’s another thing, why would Isabela even _need_ a teacher to learn common? Isn’t it… well common _?_

It wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as a oneshot idea never to be continued over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745359/chapters/17658973). But as I've just read an offensive Zevran/MCIT fic... I feel I HAVE to rectify the situation. Immediately. So... here we go. Welcome to.. I dunno fic number 69?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Translations (Don't worry, this will be the only chapter with it)  
> Chanclas - Flip Flops (in case you missed it)  
> ¿Que deseas? - What do you want?  
> ¿Perdoname, donde esta el pastol? - Excuse me, where is the pastor?  
> ¿Cómo se dice...el padre? - How do you say, the Father/priest  
> ¡Perdóname! ¿Por favor ayudarme? - Forgive me! Please help me?!  
> Bruja - Crone/Witch  
> Arroz con pollo guisado y berza - rice with chicken stew with cabbage.


End file.
